


Once a Knight (is enough for any man)

by 27dragons, tisfan



Series: WinterIron Bingo [8]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Blacksmithing, Herbalist - Freeform, M/M, Torture, Witch Hunts, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 17:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19773400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/27dragons/pseuds/27dragons, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: Bucky Barnes is not a witch. Tony Stark is not a knight. And they’re totally not pining over each other.





	Once a Knight (is enough for any man)

Bucky Barnes was not a witch. He was an herbalist and a healer, and if he happened to be particularly good with a bow and arrow, well, that was just because these were dangerous times, and a man had to take care of what was his.

His mother, Winifred Barnes, hadn’t been a witch, either. She’d been a midwife and a cunning lacemaker. Her father before her had also failed at being a witch. He was a botanist, and in his spare time, wrote poetry.

Two generations before that, on his maternal side, Bucky Barnes’ great-great grandmother might have been a witch. It was said she’d been a wild creature, cavorting with beasts of all kinds. According to family history, however, she was mostly just a healer of animals and maybe a little mad in the head.

Bucky Barnes was not a witch. He did, however, live on the very edge of the small village, away from most of the other townsfolk. Some say it was because he cavorted with the devil and she-demons of every sort. Bucky himself maintained that his gardens grew better in the soil by the pond, and that it didn’t make sense for him to trudge all the way out every morning. (Some of the men who owned and worked farms did that, because living inside the walls and then walking the two or three or four miles out to their farms made them _townsfolk_ , and therefore, not peasants.)

He might not have been a witch, but he was an odd one, and Tony Stark didn’t know him very well. He’d seen the man once or twice when he’d come to the smithy to order very specially made tools. 

And once at the Mayday celebration, where there had been a great deal of wine, dancing, and a single, stolen kiss. When Tony woke up the next morning with a raging hangover, he’d not quite had a clear memory of the evening, and thus, ignored it.

It wasn’t the first time.

But when Tony had pains in his chest and difficulty breathing and the symptoms didn’t clear up-- well, he knew what he had to do.

It was going to be awkward; if Bucky did, or did not, remember the kiss. But Tony’d deal with that when he got there. 

He banked the fires and put out the sign saying the smithy was closed. He made sure that Sir Nicholas’ nearly-completed armor was securely locked in the storeroom, then dropped a wide-brimmed hat on his head against the sun and headed out of town.

It was slow going. He had to stop often to gasp for breath, to lean against a tree or a fence post or a rock to wait for the pains to subside. Why did the outlying lands have to lie so far out? By the time he’d reached Bucky’s cottage, he was sweating far more than the mild day warranted, and he had to lean against the gate for several long minutes before his hand stopped shaking enough to lift the latch.

“Bucky?” he called. There wasn’t a lot of volume to it, since he couldn’t quite catch his breath. “You here?”

A moment later, he appeared, hands dirty and wearing an apron. He had a bundle of herbs in one hand that he hung on a hook near the fireplace. “Smith Stark,” he said, giving a little bob. “What can I do for you today?” He peered at Tony in the dim lighting. His cottage was small, but crammed full of bottles and dried herb packets, shelves and boxes. Racks of drying herbs hung from the ceiling and there was a huge cast iron pot bubbling gently over the fire. Tony was pretty sure he’d made that pot, come to think of it.

Tony didn’t wait for an invitation; he pulled Bucky’s chair away from the table and sank into it. “It’s my heart,” he said. “It’s racing like I’ve run all the way to the castle and back. Can’t catch my breath, can barely lift my hammer.”

“Hmmm,” Bucky said. He took off his dirty apron and got a clean one off the hook. “Take off your shirt, if you don’t mind.” He washed his hands thoroughly in a trough of water, patted them dry. He took a cup of hot water and poured it over-- something brown and gritty, like soil. Added a dollop of honey. “Start with this, drink this, and see if your breathing gets better.”

Tony braced himself for the medicinal taste and took a big swallow. “Oh! That’s... This is pretty good.” He sipped at it again. It was bitter, under the honey, but pleasantly so. “What’s in it?”

“It’s called _kafe_ ,” Bucky told him. “The Moorish folk drink it regularly. Won’t grow in our climate, but it helps ease breathing. Also wakes you up a bit.”

He waited until Tony had taken his shirt off and finished most of the drink. “Now, let me listen to your chest. Take easy breaths and try not to talk.”

“Not talk?” Tony joked. “Me?” He grinned weakly and lifted his hands when Bucky shot him a sharp look, and concentrated on taking slow, shallow breaths.

Bucky gently pushed Tony’s legs apart and knelt between them, pressing his ear against Tony’s chest. “Okay, breathe in and hold it as long as you can. If you need to cough, go ahead and do that, I’ll hear what’s going on inside.” 

Tony practically _had_ to hold his breath, having Bucky pressed so close, tucked between his knees. Not that Tony would be able to _do_ anything about it, at the moment, even if Bucky was so inclined. But after a few moments, the ache in his chest turned into pressure, and he was forced to cough. Wincing, he pressed his hand to his chest, just above Bucky’s head.

Bucky shifted a little, touched Tony’s forehead and looked at the insides of his wrists. He peered up at Tony’s eyes, and had him open his mouth for inspection. “Any numbness in your fingers when you wake up? Pain in your left shoulder and down that arm?”

Tony frowned, thinking, and shook his head. “Not that I’ve noticed.”

“Well, that’s good,” Bucky said. “I can make you up some more of the kafe, you should drink a cup every morning. And a little willowbark, too. It’ll ease pain and make your heart not have to work quite so hard. I have a treatment; it’ll taste terrible, and it will cause some pain for a just a few breaths, but then everything should get easier. I’ll warn you, though, it’s also poisonous, so you don’t want to use it too often. And in very, very small doses.”

Tony nodded. “Right. Tell me what to do, then.” He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees, ready to listen and commit Bucky’s instructions to memory.

Bucky searched around on his shelves and cupboards for a while, before finally finding a glass jar with a sealed top full of oily-looking roots. “This is aconite tincture. More than five drops will probably kill you. You want to put no more than two drops, and only if the pain is very bad, usually just one will do, in a full glass of water and drink it.” He used a tin funnel and carefully poured a very small amount of the substance into a tiny vial and popped a cork in it, sealing it with wax. He let a single drop from the funnel fall into a cup and poured water over it from a bucket. 

“This is for you, along with a glass dropper, be careful with that, they’re delicate to make and expensive,” Bucky said. “Since the medicine needs to be taken promptly, and obviously, I won’t be with you all the time.” 

He stirred the cup, and then handed it to Tony. “You’ve got a sickness of the heart,” he said. “It can’t be cured, but the symptoms can be relieved, and you can live a long and healthy life. Drink that.” 

Tony wasn’t too surprised. His mother had succumbed to a weak heart when he’d been only a boy. He wondered idly whether she might have lived longer, if Bucky had been plying his trade, then. Fanciful wishing; he shook his head and sniffed at the cup. Here was the sharply unpleasant flavor he’d expected before -- but if it would ease his pain, he’d gladly endure it. He took a breath and gulped it all down as fast as he could.

“Uhck,” he complained, handing the cup back to Bucky. “That’s _terrible_.”

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky said. “Well, actually, I don’t, having not used it myself, but I can imagine. I’m told it’s quite bitter. Give it a few breaths and then it will feel like someone’s made a fist around your heart. Tight squeeze. Try to relax, and it’ll be over soon enough. Everything should be better, then.”

Despite his calm words, Bucky was looking anxiously at Tony, watching him carefully. 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Tony assured him. “I’m not--”

Shit. Shit, fuck, he was _dying_. Right now, here in Bucky’s cottage. His whole chest felt like it was being squeezed in a vise. He couldn’t breathe. His mouth was hanging open, but his lungs wouldn’t expand. Bucky was talking, saying something, and Tony couldn’t respond, couldn’t hear him over the sudden ringing in his ears. Everything turned gray, like unworked ore, and darkness closed in from the sides.

And then it eased, as suddenly as it had come.

Tony found himself on the floor, kneeling where he’d slid out of the chair. He panted for breath and was ridiculously relieved to feel the air filling his lungs. “God help me,” he rasped. “One drop. Right.”

“There you go, up you get,” Bucky said, putting his hand on Tony’s arm, fingers warm around Tony’s bicep. He helped Tony back up and into the chair, then-- “Blast!” and he was looking out the window at-- “ _Witchfinders_.”

From the path, they were coming, three figures on horseback and several of the villagers behind them, carrying torches and farming tools. _A mob_. Bucky sealed the glass jar of tincture, calmly packed it into a satchel. “Willowbark, a small spoonful every night before bed. Kafe, in the morning. Aconite, when you have pain.” He thrust the satchel at Tony, along with his shirt. “Now, get down here--” He pushed aside the handwoven rug to reveal a trap door. “Root cellar. Get in there and stay until they’ve gone. They won’t condemn you as a witch, but they may decide you need to be scourged of my demonic influence. _Stay hidden_.”

Bucky looked back at them, then leaned in and kissed Tony, hard and hot and shaking. “Go.”

“Come hide _with_ me,” Tony begged, even as he let Bucky practically push him down into the cellar. His lips tingled with Bucky’s kiss. “Don’t let them find you! You can’t let them just--”

“If they come in here, they will find the cellar,” Bucky said. “Please--”

He dropped the trap door over Tony’s head, closing him in a pungent and sweet smelling hole in the ground. Tony could see for a moment, through the cracks in the door, and then the rug went back in place. A moment later, Bucky appeared to gather his courage, and walked outside the small cottage.

“Good afternoon, Witchfinder General Pierce. Rumlow. Rollins. And townsfolk. How can I help you today?”

Pierce. Tony felt cold just at the name. The witchfinder had condemned dozens of people. Maybe hundreds. No one he’d taken into custody had ever failed to be proven a witch.

Bucky wasn’t a witch. Tony knew that in his bones. He twisted his hands together, trying to gather his scattered wits. He couldn’t possibly hope to sway even the townsfolk, much less the witchfinder and his bullies. Only the king himself could hope to call them off. Or the bishop, perhaps.

Outside, the Witchfinder General ordered Bucky to remove his shirt, and of course, instantly honed in on the red-star tattoo that Bucky had sported for as long as Tony could remember. There were whispers of an underground network of healers and herbalists across the world for whom the red star was a symbol of hope. Pierce declared it Bucky’s witchmark, and held aloft a pin to display.

From his position, Tony could see the gathering through a crack in the foundation. It wasn’t hard, from the angle, to see that the “pin” was nothing more than a spring loaded handle with a point. As it pushed against Bucky’s skin, it wouldn’t bleed or hurt or leave a mark, because it would collapse into the handle.

But the people couldn’t see. What they could see was a length of steel about four inches long going straight into Bucky’s shoulder while he struggled against Rollins and Rumlow’s grip. And didn’t bleed. And there was no wound.

Damn it, _think!_ He looked around wildly, as if there might be anything in the root cellar that he could use. Baskets of potatoes and turnips, dried herbs and bottles of tinctures. The far wall let more light through; the foundations were beginning to crumble and needed to be fixed soon. But that didn’t help Bucky, not at all.

A witchmark wasn’t considered proof, but it was damning. Pierce paraded around, giving his speech about God, and Satan who was walking free in this town. A few of the townsfolk gave reports; of Bucky walking by and made a gesture at their cow, and the next day the cow had given sour milk. Another who reported that Bucky had been seen by moonlight in the river. _Swimming_ undressed to cavort with a demon.

This went on for a ridiculously long time, people Tony had known all his life making up falsehoods, swearing they had seen evidence of witchcraft.

Bucky protested, called on people he knew, who he had helped; Frost’s daughter, whose broken leg he’d mended, the three children he’d treated for adder bites, Schmidt, who’d come to him for help when he’d burned his face. But they all looked aside, or pretended that he’d healed them in _unnatural_ ways.

“We shall take the witch to be ducked,” Pierce declared, and Bucky was clapped in irons -- shackles, Tony noticed, that he’d made -- and Pierce dragged him along behind his horse. The crowd turned to follow, and--

Someone threw a torch at Bucky’s cottage. The straw thatching caught quickly; it had been a dry summer. It only took moments before the whole house was ablaze.

Heat rose; Tony had learned that early, working in the forges, but it was still more than hot enough in the cellar. Tony felt around wildly and found a shovel. He drew back with as much strength as he could muster and drove it into the crumbling cracks of the cottage foundation. Bits of old brick and clay chipped free.

Tony attacked the wall again and again, until the hole was -- barely -- large enough for him to squeeze through. He climbed up a basket of turnips, and then onto a low shelf, knocking over a half-dozen bottles and jars, and scrambled through the hole, desperate to escape the blaze before the floor caved in on him.

He broke out into the air and ran, heedless, until he could just feel the heat of the fire at his back, and then turned to look. The crowd was gone, long since departed with their victim. The house was all but destroyed, and most of the garden was already gone, as well.

And they were going to drown Bucky.

And there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing he could say or do would stop them.

He closed his eyes, throat aching against his grief.

He pushed it aside and strode back down the road toward town, toward his forge. He would pack his things and leave. He could not stay here, could not serve a community that had so easily turned on one of their own.

He began packing his wagon with his most important tools, some of the things he’d made for sale, tools and pots and horseshoes and even a few decorative pieces. The commissioned armor for Sir Nicholas would go unfinished, but really, only a few minor pieces needed to be done, so--

The armor.

Tony fumbled out his key and unlocked the storeroom. The armor stood there on its stand, gleaming and fierce and beautiful.

It seemed he stood there for an age, staring at it, an unthinkable thought teasing at the corners of his thoughts.

If he were caught, he’d be killed.

If he didn’t at least try, then Bucky would die.

Tony touched his fingertips to his lips, as if he could still feel Bucky’s kiss there.

He would have to hurry.

***

The accusations were ridiculous, and Bucky was having trouble believing that anyone could possibly believe it, but they were. Wide eyed and fierce scowls, the townsfolk were afraid. Afraid of him, as a witch, some of them. Others were afraid if their words didn’t ring with enough sincerity that it would be their families, they themselves, who were next accused. 

Bucky understood the Witchfinder General’s position well enough; as an herbalist, Bucky had some power. Cures and easement of pain came from his cottage, and that could undermine the people’s faith in the Church. 

It wasn’t that Bucky was a heathen. He believed and followed God as much as anyone. But God, it seemed, was a little bit divorced from His _Church_. The Church had power. Miracles came from the Church and nowhere else. Faith was _power_ , and all the power needed to be in the hands of the Church.

He’d known this could happen, although he’d tried not to let fear rule him. Practiced his trade. Didn’t cause trouble. 

He couldn’t explain why the witch’s pin hadn’t marked him, hadn’t hurt him. There was no explaining that, but as they went to drag him away, he fought, and fought hard enough that Rumlow had done something. Twisted the pin in his hand, and when he struck Bucky with it the second time, that had hurt, that had left a mark. He pressed his hand over the wound in his belly.

Bucky had been dragged away. He spared a look back at his cottage. Thank God, they hadn’t stopped to search the house. 

But someone had stopped and thrown a torch. And another. And another.

In moments, Bucky’s little house, all of his possessions. Tony.

Had gone up in flames.

Bucky screamed, reached back as if there was something he could do, anything he could do. “No, _no--_ ”

The building collapsed, and all the fight went out of him.

Tony… Tony was gone, he was dead, buried under the weight of Bucky’s house, in the fires. He must have been terrified in those moments before his death. In agony. Bucky didn’t weep, but there was nothing left. They’d killed the one person that Bucky had cared about, even if Tony had never known it, would never know it.

They dragged him off to the ducking chair, the pond. 

They already had the bonfire built where they would burn him, if he didn’t drown first.

“You know this is stupid,” he told Rumlow as the man bound him to the chair. “If I drown, I was innocent. If I don’t drown, I’m a witch and you kill me. In either case, I’m dead.”

“Nothing personal,” Rumlow said, patting his shoulder. “Satan will claim his own.”

“Feels a little personal,” Bucky said.

Bucky was breathing a little too fast, dizzy with it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to live through drowning in order to die in the fire, but his body didn’t know anything about what was going to happen next. It knew drowning.

He gasped for air, and then--

Under the water he went. 

The water was muddy as he struggled, holding his breath, fighting, fighting-- 

He didn’t know how long it lasted. His chest burned for air, his eyes stung, his heart throbbed in his chest.

Bucky was terrified and angry, sick with grief, shaking with fear.

It was never going to end.

And then it did, and he was out of the water and spluttering, coughing, he couldn’t see, he had no idea what was going on. His arms were still bound and his hair was plastered across his face.

“ _Halt, in the name of the King!_ ”

There were too many people clustered around for Bucky to see clearly, but between milling bodies, he caught a glimpse of bright, shining armor.

“What is the meaning of this rabble?”

The rabble in question muttered amongst themselves for a moment, before Pierce cried out, “This man is a witch, and we mean to burn him, as all witches must be fuel for the fire of the righteous.”

“Burn the witch!” one of the townsfolk yelled. Bucky didn’t look, he didn’t want to know. He coughed, choked, coughed again, and then vomited out a few mouthfuls of dirty water. 

“Are you certain, Witchfinder General, that he is in league with the Devil?” The sound of steel rattling brought the knight closer. “Have you performed all the tests?”

“We have performed the tests,” Pierce said. “He has been thrice accused by these good, God-fearing people. He has the mark of Satan on him, and as you see, he has been tested by trial of water.”

“And has he named his accomplices?” The knight’s voice echoed inside his helmet.

“He has named no such accomplices,” Pierce said.

“That would be--” Bucky choked out, “--because I ain’t--” He coughed again, couldn’t seem to stop. His lungs ached from the dirty water.

“Preposterous,” the knight thundered. “Witches are foul, cowardly beasts who take strength only in numbers. If you have found no other witches, then, Witchfinder, I fear you have failed this good community.” Clank and clash of steel brought the knight to the very edge of the pond. “This one should not be killed until he is questioned, made to divulge the others of his evil coven.”

The Witchfinder strode over to the knight, and in a lower voice, “we have not the facilities in this village for confession, so recent has the stain of Satan fallen on them. Nor have I the manpower. We were told of one witch, just the one. Perhaps he is stronger, look how he survived the ducking stool, even when wounded. He is a powerful witch indeed, sir knight.”

“So I see,” the knight answered. “And yet, we find they nearly always form packs, like the curs they are. If you will permit me to offer my service to your holy quest, I will take this one with me to the King’s dungeons, and ensure he gives up the others.”

Bucky struggled with the chains and ropes that bound him to the ducking stool. “No, _no--_ ” he yelled. Even now, even as they stared at him, waiting for the order to execute him for crimes of witchcraft, Bucky didn’t want anyone else-- “There’s no one else, I swear. No one else.”

“He lies,” the knight snapped, “as all witches do! Think, good people! Is there no one of your village who has seemed too close to this man? One, perhaps, whose presence is unaccounted for, here in this righteous assembly?”

The mob muttered again, looked around. No one missed a witch trial; not ever. Even the family, friends, kin. You didn’t dare.

“Stark?” someone asked. “Where’s the smith?”

Bucky closed his eyes. Shuddered. Shaking. Tony was already dead, they couldn’t hurt him. They could do nothing to him that they hadn’t already done. He didn’t mean it, but Bucky let out a bitter, barking sob. Tony was gone, and he was going to be dragged off to die in agony in the king’s torture chambers.

“You see!” the knight said. “He quails at the truth! Go, Witchfinder, and find the smith! I will take this one with me, along with word of your devotion and diligence. The King will be most pleased, I have no doubt.”

Bucky stared at the knight, furious, sick. And then back at Pierce, who was a liar and a fake. _I’ll kill you, if it’s all I ever manage_ , he thought. Rumlow knocked him over, kicked him, made him crawl as Rollins dragged the chains over to the knight. 

“Into your care, we deliver this servant of the Lord of the Flies,” Rumlow reported. “Go with God.”

“And you,” the knight returned solemnly. “May He judge us all as we deserve. Come, witch. You will regret swearing your allegiance to the Dark One.” He pulled Bucky to his feet, nodded sharply at Pierce, and strode off, leaving Bucky to scurry after him, or be dragged.

“There isn’t _anyone else_ ,” Bucky spat, stumbling. He staggered, coughed again. “Stark’s already dead, there’s no one, call it off. Call it off, please, no one else. I swear it.”

“You are definitely in league with Stark,” the knight said, quietly. “If you weren’t before, then you must be now.” He turned to pull at Bucky’s chains, tipping his visor toward the receding crowds. “Otherwise, we’re _both_ dead.”

Bucky got a quick glimpse of the knight’s face, a wry grin on those beautiful lips, smears of ash and dirt on his face. “Oh, god.” All the strength went out of his legs, and he didn’t mean to, but he forced Tony to drag him a few paces. Probably kept up appearances if nothing else. 

When they were out of earshot, Bucky croaked his name. “Tony, oh, my god, you’re _alive_.” The logical conclusion to that thought, Tony was alive, the witchfinders were off hunting him, and-- this was a _rescue_. Bucky was being rescued… by a _knight in shining armor_.

“Yeah,” Tony agreed. “It was in question for a bit, there, but I made it. I left my wagon about a mile outside of town, in the woods. We’ll... we’ll need to travel hard for a few days, to keep them from catching up with us. If you want to stick together.”

Bucky nodded. “That seems safer,” Bucky said. “Of course I’ll go with you, anywhere you want to go.” _For as long as you want me to stay with you._ He gave Tony a long, searching look. “Besides, you rescued me, fair knight. I think the tradition says your reward is… well, me.”

Tony stumbled a little, then laughed softly. “Well, I’m not exactly a knight, but you’re not exactly a maiden, either, I guess.” He glanced back over his shoulder -- the townsfolk had all dispersed in the opposite direction, heading, presumably, for Tony’s smithy -- and then pulled off the helm. “That thing was squeezing my brain. So, uh. That kiss wasn’t just some... random impulse?” The look he shot at Bucky was full of barely-restrained hope.

“It wasn’t _random_ ,” Bucky said. “Just seemed like my last chance to kiss you. There wasn’t… there was never enough time.” 

Tony blew out a breath. “Well, we wasted too much of it, apparently. And look where that almost got us.”

“I am not going to blame being _accused of witchcraft_ on my failure to kiss you stupid,” Bucky muttered. He managed another step, the chains clinked gently as he raised bound wrists to cup Tony’s cheek. “But I will kiss you, any time you want me to.”

Tony tipped his face into the touch, then looked around again, warily. “We can’t waste much time, right now, if we hope to get away. But I think I can spare a moment for one kiss.” He stepped closer, and leaned in -- the knight’s armor actually made him a little taller than Bucky -- to brush Bucky’s lips with his own, once, twice, three times.

Bucky shivered, not from cold or fear, but from the blazing passion. “Get us out of here, and I’ll spare quite a number of moments to let you.” He took advantage, and kissed Tony one more time before stepping back. He’d been given a gift, been rescued, been _saved_. He’d go wherever Tony wanted, for as long as he had left to follow.

Tony grinned, his cheeks flushed, and looked so purely _happy_ that it was almost an ache in Bucky’s chest. “I have a friend who lives down the road, a day’s travel. He’ll hide us for a bit, and then...” He spread his arms wide. “The world is ours.”


End file.
